


The Tower

by goddessofcruelty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Kidnapped Peter Hale, M/M, Nipple Play, Prince Peter Hale, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessofcruelty/pseuds/goddessofcruelty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who are you?' the Prince demands, pulling himself into a sitting position, the snap of command in his voice, used to being obeyed.</p><p>“Someone who knows how to shut up troublesome Princes.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Prompt: Romance novel prompt: Peter Hale the kidnapped Princess who falls in love with his dark, brooding captor (Chris) :D
> 
> Note: This got away from me a bit, not sure it really fills the prompt, sorry :/

Prince Peter Hale falls asleep to the gentle rocking of his coach, and awakens to a hand being clasped over his mouth, and a pair of ice blue eyes boring into him, and then he smells the chemical on the cloth. And there's there's darkness once more.

-

He awakens a second time on a soft bed in a well-appointed room, and for a brief moment he thinks it was a dream, and that he has made it to his sister's castle after all. The thought is quickly dispelled by the entrance of the man dressed all in black, face covered as well, just those eyes that Peter will never forget, studying him silently.

“Who are you?' the Prince demands, pulling himself into a sitting position, the snap of command in his voice, used to being obeyed.

“Someone who knows how to shut up troublesome Princes.”

The man's voice is slightly muffled by the cloth covering his face, but its deep and rich, and shaded with the hint of an accent Peter can't place, and in other circumstances, he might even find it alluring. Now the words just fuel his ire, and he slides from the bad and stalks right up to the man. He's been in more than one sortie, and a few tavern brawls as well. Peter is no stranger to combat.

So when he attacks the slightly taller man, he's expecting a fight. He's not expecting to be pinned against the wall with the point of a blade at his neck in the blink of an eye.

“I suggest you not try that again, princeling,” that dark voice growls, and were it not for the dire circumstances, Peter might be enjoying himself in this moment. He subtly tests the strength of the brigand, and finds that there's no give in his grasp. Peter nods once, brusquely, and relaxes. The man waits a moment, and then steps back and is through the door before Peter can turn all the way around.

He hears the lock of the door, and goes to the window, pulling open the shutters to find iron bars in his way. And a very long drop down.

 _Some sort of tower, then_ , Peter notes. _And further north_ , he judges by the chill in the air.

He presses his face to the bar to see as much of the horizon as he can, but he sees nothing but forest. There is only the one window.

Peter has the clothes on his back, the sumptuous bed, and a chair.

He loses the chair when he uses it to attack his captor. The man is preternaturally fast, and deft, balances the tray of food while wrapping a hand around the chair leg and pulling Peter forward off balance, and then slamming it back into his face.

Peter rages and destroys his bed.

When he awakens the next morning, he's left with a mattress and a single blanket. _The man must have drugged the water_ , he thinks and refuses to drink any more.

That earns him a visit where the blue-eyed kidnapper pins him to the bed and forces the water down his throat, just as impassively as he does anything.

He steps back when he's finished, but not before Peter manages to sink his teeth into the other man's forearm. Peter finds out he is, in fact, flesh and blood, when his teeth pierce the skin and he tastes the copper tang of it.

An impassive backhand knocks Peter's face to the side, and then the man surprises Peter one more time. He grips Peter's wrists with his left hand, buries his right in a fistful of Peter's hair. The man shakes off the cloth that hides his face, and bites down into the crook of Peter's neck. The Prince convulses in his captor's grasp, feeling those teeth break the skin and grind down further, but also it sends an odd tingling down Peter's body. He has _never_ been treated in such a way, with callous disregard for his personal comfort and physical safety.

When the man pulls back, he murmurs low into his captive's ear. “You can't win against me.” And then he throws Peter to his mattress and strides from the room.

-

Peter starts using a tiny metal piece of the former bed one day to carve into the wall out of sheer boredom. He starts recreating his favorite book, careful in his scratches. When his meal comes, he ignores it, focused on his work. By day's end, he's got the entire first chapter down, and he feels a moment of pride for his memory. He surveys his work with a faint smirk.

The blue eyed man quotes the first line from the next chapter from behind him, so close that when Peter starts in surprise and stumbles backwards, he finds himself held in the older man's arms. His face turns up in shock, and for a brief second that lasts forever, their faces are mere inches apart, eyes locked on each other.

Whatever it is that Peter is seeing in those eyes shutters, they go ice cold, hard as granite, and the man steps back, dumping the Prince unceremoniously on his derriere, and hurries from the room. Peter sits on the floor, and stares at the door for a long time. And then Prince Peter Hale slowly smirks.

-

When the man returns the next day, mask once again in place, Peter is busily scratching into the wall, but this time it's the first chapter of quite a different book, and his suspicions are confirmed when he turns to see his captor reading over his shoulder again. However, this time there's a flush in his cheeks, and when he looks down at Peter, there's a recognition in his eyes that wasn't there before. Only those in certain circles would know this work, and the kidnapper has just given himself away.

There's a long moment of silence, and then the man lifts his chin, defiant at the Prince's knowing look, and then sets the tray of food down, pulls something out of his pocket and sets it next to the wooden spoon, and then leaves without ever saying a word.

Peter waits until he is gone, and then investigates, lifting the tiny little thing carved of dark wood into his palm and bringing it to the window to study it in the fading gloom.

It's a chess pawn, and Peter puzzles at its meaning for a long, long time.

Does it symbolize the man with the blue eyes? Is he trying to tell Peter that he's only a pawn in whatever game is being played? Or is it Peter himself who's the pawn, kidnapped and held captive for who knows what purpose? Or some meaning that he can't see yet?

Peter falls asleep with the pawn in his hand.

-

When the Prince wakes up, it's midday, and his meal is there waiting. There's another pawn on the tray, but this time, it's of a soft gray wood.

Apparently, he's not going to see his mysterious captor today.

He doesn't bother to write on his walls, just studies the two carvings, and then spends his afternoon using the spoon to carve out a rough chessboard in the wooden floor. He places the two pawns opposite each other in their starting positions and retires to bed once more. It seems the sleeping draught in his water has been increased.

His rest is fitful that night, however, vague dark shapes and burning flames and Peter is only lightly dozing when the man comes to him once more. His vision is hazy as his captor crouches down, shifts the pieces on the crude board, and then lifts Peter's carving implements and walks over to the wall. The man scratches something but the Prince falls back into fitful slumber before he can investigate.

-

At random intervals, on no timeline that the Prince can suss out, he awakens clean, freshly shaved, and dressed in new clothing. He knows that the man in black must be doing it, and he spends a fair amount of time imagining how he would go about it. Is he brisk and efficient? Is he gentle? Does he spend some time getting to know Peter's body? It should probably bother him, hell it absolutely should bother him, but for some reason it has the opposite effect, and Peter finds himself straining his breeches thinking about the reserved kidnapper, putting his hands all over Peter's body.

He turns away from the door, and resolves to find a way to be awake for the encounter. And then he loosens the laces and slides his hand inside, freeing his achingly hard length from its confinement. Peter takes his time, knows the man will not return this evening, and sets his mind imagining scenarios that range from the romantic to the forceful, and in no time at all, the Prince's seed is filling the cloth in his hand.

The Prince does a cursory wash in the small bucket provided for everyday, and then flops back down onto his mattress. He wonders how long he's going to be locked in this room, how long he's already been locked in this room, and if he'll ever see another face beside the man's again.

-

Peter gradually acquires pawns, now he's got seven, and he's memorized the letters that his captor has underlined from the writing on the wall, and he's no closer to figuring the man out than he was before.

He has, however, through experimentation, figured out those doses of whatever's in his drink, and how to dilute it with his washwater, to give him some more waking time should he require it.

Peter decides to try it out tonight, swaps out what he thinks is the right amount to shave two hours off of his time under the influence, and goes to bed as usual.

His intuition has paid off, because he feels himself slipping from under the drug as he's being roughly dried off and dressed. He manages to keep himself from stiffening or reacting in any way, and simply lets himself be lifted and settled into bed, and though he's still somewhat foggy, Peter is sure that the man has just gently run a hand through Peter's hair before tucking him into bed.

The Prince forces himself to lie there unmoving while the man takes the tub and whatever other accouterments away, and then he comes back to Peter, leans in and whispers something soft in the Prince's ear. It takes everything that Peter has not to react to the message and his mind races as he wonders what it means. Does the man know Peter is faking? Or does he whisper this message every night?

“ _J’ai aimé jusqu’à atteindre la folie.”_

_-_

Peter has twelve pawns now and a name...he thinks. Peter's put the letters underlined on the wall in an order that makes them say “Christophe”. Is that the man's name? The name of his enemy that led to this incarceration? The name of someone who might rescue him?

There are too many questions and not enough answers, and Peter is frustrated. He decides to cut his dose again this night, and see if he can find out any more about the kidnapper – Christophe, he's decided. Whether that's the man's name or not, Peter doesn’t much care. It's better than not knowing.

-

He awakens to find himself in a tub, the man's shoulder behind his back, and his left arm around Peter. It's a very intimate position, and it's not helped by the captor – Christophe – running a soap slick hand along Peter's chest, sliding across nipples that are far too sensitive for a man.

Of all the scenarios that Peter had envisioned, he somehow neglected to account for the way his own body would react to the stimulation. He twitches involuntarily as the fingers slide across the peaked buds once more, and Peter has a moment where he thinks his ruse has been discovered. But Christophe just murmurs something inaudible in that other language of his, and then repeats the motion on the other side until both buds are standing at attention. Then he rolls one between his fingers and Peter's desperately trying to keep control of himself but his body moves ever so slightly.

This does not surprise the man, and Peter wonders if he always reacts like this in his drugged sleep, and the implications hit him like a stack of books. It seems his suspicions are correct, because Christophe's hand slides down lower, dips beneath the waterline and between the Prince's thighs.

The slick hand wraps tightly around his length with a familiarity that tells the Prince that his captor has done this many a time. And with the free hand still teasing at his nipples, and that dark voice murmuring in his ear, Christophe brings his captive off with easy efficiency.

Apparently Peter's reactions pass muster, for Christophe does not act as if anything's amiss, simply cleans the Prince thoroughly, and then lifts him out of the tub to a plush cloth laid out on the floor, and dries him there.

When Peter is turned on his side post toweling, he expects to be dressed and placed into his bed as before. Christophe has other ideas it seems, for he stretches out behind the Prince and moves a hand between them. It's not until Peter feels the heavy weight of his captor's cock slap against his rear that he understands.

His heart races, and he's not sure if it's fear or desire or some twisted mixture of both, but he doesn't react when a finger, slick with some substance he hears issuing from a small jar, presses against that secret passage, dances around the tightened pucker of muscles, and then slips the tiniest amount within. And the Prince doesn't know _how_ he's going to comport himself in such a way as to not incite Christophe's suspicions, because he doesn't know how he reacts in just such a circumstance. The prince has, as of yet, not made intimate acquaintance with a man, at least not to this depth.

Christophe, uncaring of the Prince's inner turmoil, slides the thick middle finger all the way inside his captive, twists and turns until he brushes across something that makes Peter jerk in his grasp. This seems to be his goal, for the tone of his speech turns smug, and the Prince would bet every coin that he has, that Christophe is saying an assortment of lewd imaginings in his ear.

The kidnapper's thickness, seemingly coated with that same slippery substance, now slides along the cleft between the plush globes of the Prince's backside, finger slowly removed. One of Christophe's hands, newly anointed with oil, wraps around the Prince's stiffening member, and tugs in time to his own thrusts. Peter can't help but twitch as that hardness slides along the stretched rim of his sensitive hole, and he's torn between wanting Christophe to stop, and wanting him to push himself within.

The Prince manages to bite back a whimper as the hand on his dick twists and increases, but the little moan that follows it as Christophe starts fucking harder escapes him.

It seems to encourage the older man, for he tugs Peter over the edge once more, crying out in his own release, and Peter trembles as he feels the hot splashes of come pooling at the small of his back, his own seed painting the cloth below them.

Christophe pants harshly a few heartbeats, and then pulls himself away, resumes his task of cleaning the supposedly drugged Prince, and this time Peter is dressed and deposited into bed.

There's that self-same gentle touch upon his brow, and that familiar set of foreign words whispered into his ear, and then Christophe is gone.

-

Peter no longer tries to dilute his medicine. He doesn't think he could keep himself from discovery a second time, and he cannot fathom what Christophe might do were he to reveal his ruse.

He finds a King next instead of a pawn and he wonders at the change.

The next few days bring a flurry of differing pieces one after another, and every morning when the addition is there all the pieces are set in their place...except for two of the pale pawns and one of the dark wood. One of each is set two spaces out from their start on his crudely drawn board, facing off three rows in, and the other white pawn is immediately next to its fellow. If Peter disturbs their position, they are brought back to this spot.

It's not until the queens are placed, two pieces at once, that Peter gets it, understands what Christophe is trying to tell him.

His eyes flick to the passage of the romance that he's carved into his wall. It's not the chess game itself, it's the name of the move. That name is also the title of a particular piece of literature that only those in the know would have read.

And Christophe is reenacting it.

Peter's been acting on the premise that his kidnapping is an impersonal bid for ransom or influence that would be inconvenient but result in him going free. In the story, however, the captive is taken for...other reasons.

Which, if what he surmises is correct, means that he knows Christophe from somewhere, and that leads Peter to exactly who Christophe is. There's only one who would have the resources and the desolate lands to effect such a feat.

Argent. _La grenouille_ , they called him when they were young, if they were being charitable, far worse if they were not. He'd been an outcast at Court, stumbling over the language, straight-forward and stoic where the fashion at the time had been for flights of fancy and elaborate subterfuge.

Peter hasn't seen the other man since he was eleven years old.

Christophe has apparently, not only been carrying a torch for him that entire time, but also created this elaborate setup. All for the Prince.

Peter starts to wonder if there's something very wrong with his mental faculties. He should be _horrified_. Instead, he thinks its all a bit adorable.

He's been chasing the edge for many years now, seeking out danger and excitement. Peter Hale may have finally found it.

-

Peter watches the man the next time he comes, just sit with his back to the corner and studies, trying to see the echos of the youth he once knew, but there's nothing that helps him prove his conclusion.

“Why do you still wear that mask?” he ventures, his first direct words in so long that the normally impassive Christophe startles, then looks around and shakes his head.

The next morning there's a new carving in his floor next to the chessboard. It's a crude eye.

_Someone's watching._

-

Christophe must have some way of knowing when the unseen watcher's attention is elsewhere, and Peter suspects that these are the times when the older man bathes him, as well as his other...activities.

This supposition is proven true when the man comes to him in the dead of night, under cover of the absolute darkness facilitated by the new moon.

Peter has not been drugged this time, so Christophe has changed his modus operandi, because the Prince's eating habits have not altered. The man slides onto Peter's mattress with him, large hand curling over the Prince's mouth, that he might not cry out and betray them.

Christophe presses his mouth close to Peter's ear. “Still and quiet, little prince, or they'll hear us though the moon be null.”

Peter nods once, sharply, and then takes a deep breath and begins to turn himself to face his captor, but he is forestalled. “Like this,” Christophe breathes into his ear, sending an unwilling shiver along Peter's backbone.

“Argent,” Peter murmurs, and there's a low chuckle into the skin of his neck as the man shifts away from Peter's ear.

“Knew you'd unravel the mystery given enough clues.”

“Christophe–”

“Hush or I'll put you to sleep. I just thought you'd like to be awake for this one.”

Peter feels a brief touch of relief that he has not been found out, and then a slight thrill of fear. “This one?”

The older man presses a kiss into the side of Peter neck before responding. “I'm going to claim you tonight, _mon Pierre_ , to join us as one, and wherever they take you, you will know that you belong to me.” That last is growled, and Peter reconsiders the path his life has taken because _that_ statement in _that_ voice is all he needs to feels a stirring below.

And then he reviews Christophe's statement and freezes. “They? Who is taking me somewhere?”

“Your sister has paid the ransom. Your captivity ends two days hence, when my father arrives.”

Peter feels... _disappointed_. It is just a scheme for money after all and not some grand gesture. The Prince wonders how he's become so damaged.

Christophe continues. “Father will be pleased, for it was I who provided the suggestion. Merely that I ought have you to myself for a brief moment.”

“We can go away together.” Peter's whisper is sudden and rushed, and it gives the Argent lord pause.

“No more talk,” he says at last, and wraps his free hand over Peter's mouth as his right moves to unfasten the laces securing Peter's breeches. He doesn't move his hand until Peter nods, and then the Prince finds himself shoved onto his stomach as Christophe seemingly becomes frenzied, tearing at his clothing, uncaring at its resulting state. He plants hot kisses along Peter's spine and then moves lower, and Peter has only read about this happening, but Christophe shows no hesitation as he pulls the Prince's buttocks apart and laves his tongue between them.

Peter's never felt anything like it. He's forced to bite down on his forearm to forestall the noises that threaten to issue forth at the indescribable feeling of the tongue twisting and pushing, delving into Peter, into his most secret place, spearing him on that tongue again and again.

The Prince thinks he's going to spill his seed just from that alone, but just as if he senses it, Christophe pulls away, and Peter moans low against his arm.

“Soon, greedy prince, soon.”

There's a rustling behind him, that proves to be Christophe removing his own clothing, for when he returns to Peter, it's all skin that presses against his body. The Prince feels his captor's hand moving between them, and then the tip of one finger is slid into his entrance. He gasps at the intrusion, but is given no chance to adjust, for Christophe adds a second almost immediately.

Peter digs his teeth into his own flesh as the older man's fingers find that amazing place inside and he can't help but rock back into it.

Christophe is mumbling in his own language now, but Peter senses that it's something approving, because he pats Peter's ass in what seems like a gentle manner, and then wraps the arms around the Prince's midsection and brings him to his hands and knees.

He then settles to his knees beside the Prince and wraps his rough hand around the rigid cock now leaking onto the mattress. Christophe moves his dual fingers in a rhythm, moving at a steady pace, thrusting them into the grasping hole, as his hand matches it on the other side, sliding along Peter's length.

The Prince doesn’t know how he's going to keep his voice down with such incredible things being done to his body, he's never felt anything remotely like this mix of sensations before, and with a muffled cry into his arm, he's spilling over Christophe's hand and the surface beneath him, shaking and trembling through his orgasm. His captor doesn't stop stroking him until he whimpers weakly in protest, and then he is allowed to collapse to the mattress.

Peter barely reacts as he is moved, leg shifted and raised, and he only makes a tiny noise when he feels the blunt head of Christophe's manhood press against his oversensitive rim. The older man, however makes a drawn out noise like a wounded animal as he slides into the Prince, and as his hips finally lay flush against Peter's backside, Christophe wraps his arms around his captive and clings to him tightly.

Peter blindly turns his face up, thinking to say something, but Christophe crushes his mouth down on the Prince's with such desperate ferocity that it takes Peter's breath away.

Before he can recover, Christophe begins fucking him slowly, pulling himself nearly all the way out before beginning the slow push back in, and every movement is dragging along the tight kernel of pleasure within Peter.

Christophe is in no hurry, and he continues his slow glides as his fingers find Peter's nipples and rub across them. The Prince twitches just as before, and then finds it within himself to arch his chest, to push into those teasing hands. Christophe obliges, rolling the tight bud between his thumb and forefinger and even going so far as to ever so slightly twist them, which causes a surprised reaction in the Prince.

Christophe moans into his neck as Peter clenches tightly around him, and then the older man makes him do it once more, twisting the other in similar fashion. It's been long enough that this assault, coupled with the continued slow thrusts below, cause Peter's cock to reawaken, and Christophe's murmurs are smug as he moves the Prince's hand down to himself.

Peter gingerly caresses his half-hard length, and then makes a soft noise of protest when Christophe roughly grabs hold of his hip. The noises that result from the older man's next maneuver are not so soft, for Christophe is fucking into him with wild abandon now, merely using Peter as a vessel for his pleasure. The thought manages to bring the Prince to full hardness, and he swiftly begins to tug as his member, aiming to bring himself off while Christophe is thrusting wildly into him.

The older man's grip tightens, and the Prince will have bruises for days to come from that, and he will never forget this feeling, of being impaled and stretched on a man's dick, filled and brought to the heights of pleasure.

Christophe's thrusts become erratic and the Prince focuses on himself a long moment, arms moving frantically until he reaches his goal and jerks against his captor, whispering Christophe's name like a benediction as he comes in spurts across the mattress once more.

And this seems to be the push over the edge for the older man as well, for he digs his nails into the bones of Peter's hips and thrust roughly a handful of times before clutching himself tightly to the Prince, pulsing deep inside him.

Christophe grabs a vicious handhold of the younger man's hair and yanks his head back, claiming his lips one last time as he fills Peter with his seed, and then he withdraws.

Peter bites back a whimper as he turns, and the motion shifts his very sore extremities. He watches as Christophe cleans himself up, and then brings a cloth to his Prince. The older man is gentle and tender as he removes all evidence of their union from Peter, and then hands him a cup of water.

“Drink, sweet prince,” he says, voice rough, and Peter lifts his face up and receives and barely there brush of lips against his, before the cup is pressed against them.

Peter drinks.

-

The Prince wakes up with the sunlight streaming into his face, and to the concerned face of his sister and assorted servants.

“Are you quite well, brother,” she queries. “Did they mistreat you?”

Peter takes half a moment to collect himself, and then lifts his chin. “If by mistreat, you mean bore _incredibly_. Who knew that being kidnapped could be less exciting than listening to Andrew's poetry?”

As could have been guessed, the jape and Peter's hearty health soon ease all concerns, and the Prince is alone one more.

Peter gingerly makes his way to the north window, memorizing a personal reminder to acquire some alcohol at the first opportunity, and looks out at the far distant reaches, in the direction of his lonely tower.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if I need to tag anything.
> 
> [Tumblr](goddessofcruelty.tumblr.com)


End file.
